


Their Secret

by jen3227



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-03
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-03-26 10:03:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13855509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jen3227/pseuds/jen3227
Summary: Years pass, and something like love grows from just a simple glance and then a million more.





	1. One

**Title:** Their Secret  
**Status:** WIP  
**Rating:** M

 **Summary:** Years pass, and something like love grows from just a simple glance and then a million more.

 **Word Count:** 4601  
**Beta:** To both M and M (lool, did anyone else just think of chocolate like I did?) for being the most amazing, patient, and understandable betas in the world. You have helped this story more than you could possibly assume, and…I JUST LOVE YOU BOTH. Thanks to the first M, hahah, for making time in her schedule for this, and… Well I guess that works for the second M, too. Thanks for everything, you spectacular women. [Revised in 2018 – no beta]  
**Notes:** A little short story I wrote for the dmhgficexchange! It’s probably one of my favourites now; tell me what you think.

**Their Secret: One**

**Fourth-year**  
 _December_  
-  
Hermione has never quite gotten used to Draco Malfoy.

She isn’t sure she wants to, considering it is _him_ , but she believes the desire to do so is justified given their complicated past. She doesn’t know him, not even a little bit, but sometimes she feels she understands him better than anyone else could. Or, far less often, more than he’d allow anyone else to know.

She isn’t naïve enough to believe, however, that he’s been trying to reveal himself to her - albeit strangely - for the past three years. Talking would be one important, _needed_ factor for that to be possible, and they certainly hadn’t been doing any of that. If anything, she’ll classify it as a game he started, because she’d rather blame it on that most times than dwell on what his motives might be.

Especially with his strange ( _desired_ ) behavior. 

The slow burn of his gaze is always present, no longer as awkward as it used to be, but that is hardly an incentive at all when she remembers—late at night and buzzing from nervousness about the future—that he is doing it more often and more forcefully ( _lustfully_ ) than in previous years. 

She even recalls arriving at King’s Cross just a few months previous; Hermione had not even been two steps onto the train before she’d felt the trepidation that came with someone’s glance, and only when she’d caught his eyes with her own had she let the sigh of relief escape her. He’d kept watching, of course, like he usually did, but she’d felt heat evade her, a blush developing from the intensity, and she’d settled on averting her gaze uncomfortably. She had never been so violated ( _electrified_ ) by his look before, not like that, and she’d written it off as a one-time occurrence. Until, just days later, he’d done it again. Then again, and again, and again. 

She thinks she should be more worried than she is about this change, considering it _is_ Draco Malfoy and he has been looking at her _like that_ for the past three months, but she can’t find it within her to finally confront him and stop it all. She would rather pin it down to the antics of Malfoy, or a mere ploy in the monotony of his life, than actually believe it was for…for _more_ ; something less menacing. The idea itself makes her scoff.

Whether she likes it or not, however, she has come to terms that it simply isn’t _normal_ for one to look at another so often, let alone an enemy, and that’s not even considering the powerful reaction it creates from her. Merlin, she thinks about it more than she _doesn’t_.

Some nights, and almost all nights in the beginning, she had deemed it dangerous, irritating, and above all else, _creepy_. She remembers contemplating going to Dumbledore, McGonagall, _Harry_ at times, shaking with fear from will-he-kill-me-or-will-he-not thoughts, but she had stamped down on them with all her willpower and then some. She’d supposedly been the smartest witch from Muggle descent to attend Hogwarts in generations, and if she wasn’t able to fix her problems now, then she’d have no experience at all for—what she learned after only a year of being friends with the Great Harry Potter—a particularly precarious future. 

Repeatedly, she’d tell herself that he hadn’t done anything yet, not physically at least, and if she was safe, then she had nothing to worry about. Months passed before she realized that he was still staying his distance, far away from her, and by then she had already gotten used to it that she no longer feared for her life whenever she was around him.

After all, three years of his concentration ( _fascination_ ) have gone by without a hitch.

Malfoy had started this thing back in their first-year, though she had been largely unfeeling toward it at first, and partial to avoiding it altogether. Only when he’d made it clear that they were enemies – _”Filthy, little Mudblood!”_ – did she feel the simmering tension in his glances, the _burn_ escalating with every moment. Only then did she notice that this wasn’t normal, schoolboy curiosity.

It was something else entirely.

She is still uncertain on what precisely his motives may be, and only the mystery is what keeps her busy on trying to discover why he had started this thing in the first place, and then what kept him from stopping after the first time. It is the reason, she tells herself continually, that she allows it to happen at all. Or that it is what keeps her from searching him out and _demanding_ the purpose behind his actions, and then insist he stop it all, if only because she couldn’t stand ( _handle_ ) the way he made her feel. 

And it’s surely not because of how she acts ( _comes alive_ ) under his gaze, and the imminent prospect that, if she did confront him, how fast that will stop. 

Not that it even feels good, of course, but she can’t help but notice the blatant difference. Rather than his glances a subtle thought in the background, this year he makes her constantly uncomfortable and _aware_. The sensation is doubled, tripled sometimes, when she stops to think over Harry’s Triwizard competition, the reality of what could only be an upcoming war, and the unsettling emotions that follow.

She wants to curse him, several times if she can fit that in, for sending her in such a whirlwind of feelings recently, and then continuing on as if she preferred this to nothing at all. Hermione recalls getting her anger out once, punching him in fact, and she smiles to herself at the thought—a glare had been the only type of look he’d sent her for more than a few weeks, and every time she’d caught sight of one, she’d had to stifle a smile in the crook of her arm.

Sometimes, because she is _desperate_ for the solution, she thinks he might finally approach her, and the thought always makes her hands tremble and her stomach coil into severe knots. However, she immediately dismisses the idea when she recalls that three years have already passed without incident, years in which they haven’t once said anything to each other besides insults, and the possibility of wanting to now is next to impossible.

He can’t finally want to speak to her after all this time. 

She has already managed to envision a likely scenario if that happens—if ever a teacher thought they’d be excellent partners and were then forced to speak and work next to each other, or if she had forgotten a book in the Great Hall at the same time he was just leaving for classes, an entire hallway to themselves for whatever might happen once they were alone. She has come up with a thousand more, always more nerve-wracking than the last, but it always leads her to the same conclusion.

It would be explosive.

This year, however, has her shaking in indecision from the possibility of what could ( _would_ ) happen if they were ever alone.

He has grown up from the boy in years past, she could tell. This small difference, however, changed something deep within him as well, and now it is more than obvious he is comfortable in his own skin—enough that she has to worry, every day, whether or not he is going to suddenly have the gall to pull her into an empty classroom, or walk over to her one day.

The change has made the reality of an encounter more vibrant, though she tries to convince herself that he would have no motivation to take her aside, perhaps for a _talk_ , because that would be trivial when matched to the three years of building up to…to whatever it is they are doing. No meeting between them could equal the amount of tormenting ( _exhilarating_ ) behaviour he has put her through, and they would either be disappointed with a glare and an insult, or he would try something else entirely.

She doesn’t like to think of that prospect often, if only because it is Draco Malfoy, and the likelihood of that happening is minimal at best. Hermione is forced to, sometimes, when she realizes that there could be no other ending of their years of constant staring and awareness of each other—not even an argument to end all arguments.

But then the Yule Ball commences, and what she previously thought true regarding Draco Malfoy is rendered precisely the opposite.

 

*

 

When she walks in, arms locked with Viktor Krum’s, the only thing on her mind is Malfoy.

This is not new, not even close to being unusual, but the butterflies in her stomach and the tingles resonating in her hands are, and the sole thought that plagues her is whether _he_ will see her tonight. She has not looked this good in ages, if ever, and for all the work she has done ( _for Krum_ ) she wants to see his reaction. 

Hermione has always been the plain, drab girl, and he has been watching her through all her growing up—will probably continue until their seventh-year—but he will notice this difference more than anyone else.

She can feel his gaze before she even sees him, and her heart stutters, stops, and comes back to life with a frantic beat when she notices that he is with Pansy Parkinson. They are both staring at her, wide-eyed. She isn’t sure what she is most confused about; that she cares that he has brought a date or that she is stunned when not even a hint of an insult escapes his lips as she passes fully. His gaze is still on her, steady, but she focuses her attention back on Viktor instead.

In the end, she’s more enamored by him than _Malfoy_.

Convincing herself had never been so hard.

 

*

 

She argues with Harry, Ron, and it _hurts_ that they can’t be happy for her. She has stuck with Harry and Ron ever since the beginning, and every disagreement she’s ever had with them has always been for their own good, to keep them alive. They are selfish in their own regard, and she is more than angry at the fact that they had the audacity to call her a _traitor_ , for something as simple as a date.

Viktor finds her, sitting in a corner, hunched over the nearest table, shoulders shaking. She pulls away at his hesitant touch, but revels in the presence he brings with him and appreciates not being alone anymore. He slowly comes closer, filling her up with words and sentiments and she finds herself wrapped in his arms minutes later. 

She had agreed on joining him for the ball simply because he had asked. She isn’t sure if that had given the wrong impression, but she figured that this was the only night she’d be spending in his presence, and thus could decline any of his advances, if even he attempted any. Considering they hadn’t known each other long, she was almost certain he wouldn’t. 

It doesn’t feel right for some reason, but she doesn’t have anything to compare it to, and so instead stays in his arms, blaming it on the turn of events and nothing else. Later, she will pull back, he will kiss her lightly on the lips, and had she had the time to pull away from that as well, she would have. She bids him goodnight, claiming she had a lovely evening, thanking him over and over again for staying with her during her crying, but that she is all right, and just, _thanks_ , very tired, but thank you, no, she doesn’t need to be walked back, either. Yes, she will be fine. 

She feels strange, though. She doesn’t want Viktor’s assurances; she doesn’t want his soft touches and glances, or his dances. Hermione wants Harry and Ron to forgive her, to see that she isn’t a traitor ( _she doesn’t even want to be with him!_ ), but above all else, she yearns for Malfoy’s gaze. It burns her, keeps her alive, and fuels her the strength to deal with the monotony of keeping Ron in line, or keeping Harry out of danger, while keeping up with her studies as well.

It is her distraction in a cluster of chaos, of death-sentences, of Harry Potter’s fate, and all that comes with it. 

This distraction, however, wasn’t expected to be waiting for her on the way back to the Gryffindor Tower, ready to pull her arm and then the rest of her behind a tapestry big enough for, perhaps, only one person with a little extra room.

She doesn’t expect any of this.

But, she reminds herself, she has never expected anything from Draco Malfoy, and tonight is the first night that she is proved completely and utterly wrong. 

 

*

 

“It’s just me, Granger.” It is whispered, though it comes out much louder in the silence, and she is more than just nervous at his voice alone. It is dark, she can barely see his outline in the shadow of everything else, but she feels the presence of a body against her. _Close_. Too ( _comfortably_ ) close. 

She can feel walls and _him_ surround her, but she isn’t sure if what is pushing him so close is the constraint of space, or if he has made the decision to overwhelm her simply by his ] touch or proximity. Grabbing her so ungracefully had left a strong hold on her right elbow, and a hand steadying her along the waist—this alone causes her breath to catch, because she’s never thought he’d want to be within a foot of her, fascination or not. 

Hermione can feel the heat of his hands, of his body, and she can’t even get past that to think of why he could’ve possibly brought her here in the first place. After all this time.

He has been watching her forever, she has watched him back, but now they are here, forcing all of it into realness. There are so many things she can think to ask about, but she is too surprised by his presence altogether to form coherent thoughts, questions, and then to voice them. And to _him_ of all people.

She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, thoughtful. Hermione is also not naïve enough to believe that, even if she got that far, he would take the time to answer her incessant curiosity. Though he has not stopped himself from looking her way when he can, it does not shadow the reality that he has insulted her for the better part of all their encounters, or that she is more acquainted with his sneer over his cooperation.

And really, he has been terribly rude all these years.

Hermione hurts more than she wants to admit when he spits her name, her heritage, her faults. She’s cried herself to sleep an innumerable amount, and shed tears in the cubicles of several bathrooms, but it has only developed into a bigger problem with how well he has learned her habits. Coupled with the deep concentration he has set on her as of late, emotions mingle and explode before her, confusing her beyond anything she’s ever felt before.

She is able to convince herself that she ( _certainly_ ) did not crave Draco’s attention when Viktor had held her in his arms. She had argued, though she shouldn’t have even thought of Draco at that time, that it is because he has been a constant in her life, and she simply can’t just ignore that. As were Harry and Ron, and while Malfoy made an appearance in her thoughts, her best friends did more. 

Which makes everything okay. 

But having him stand before her halts her from persuading herself, over and over again, of things she has known for a while now. That, really, she can’t find him annoying because she lets it happen, and she can’t hate his glances because she returns them as often as she can, and thinks about them for longer than she should before she sleeps. He fills the air with tension and things left unsaid, and she always feels this along her spine, her neck, raising goosebumps. 

She looks to where his eyes are, catching them with her own, and the fire builds again inside her, magnified at having him _here_.

She swallows, suddenly at a loss for words, because she is sure he is waiting for some type of reply. “What is– Why are…”

Wonderful. Leave it to Draco Malfoy to reduce Hermione Granger to speechlessness. 

“I saw you earlier,” he says, probably by way of explanation. She can’t fathom why he wants to see her, after all these years, and more importantly, the purpose of this at all. And she is only staying ( _obviously_ ) because she wants to find out. 

“About what?” She can hear her voice shake, indecisive, and she is completely uncertain where she wants this conversation to go; whether she should just walk out now, no conversing at all, or stay and see where it takes her. 

“You were crying,” he whispers, bringing a hand up to her cheek. 

The touch is unexpected, but it is moments later that she notices she hasn’t cringed and, in fact, she is slowly leaning toward him. He wipes away the remnants of her tears, with both hands, then pushes his right hand to the nape of her neck, fully grabbing hold, and rests his other hand around her waist, a more possessive touch than before.

That’s when she realizes that she has been ridiculously incorrect in her assumptions of his real reasons.

Or his new reasons, she thinks.

But reasons nonetheless. 

It’s not something romantic. She can only think of it as something of a deeper connection. Of not really knowing each other at all, but having a certain interest in finding out, in showing themselves after the three years of observation. It is something else entirely, indeed.

She looks up, tingling from his body touching hers, and finally drags a hand toward him, previously immobile beside her, before pulling him the tiniest bit closer by the hem of his shirt. 

It isn’t an embrace, not really, but the warmth and tenderness of a mutual understanding. They don’t know each other, not even close, but he has watched her too much during the past few years not to know her tendencies, or her weaknesses, or anything at all. The same could be said for her, too, since she has witnessed more about him than he probably gives her credit for. 

“You’ve made me cry before, Malfoy,” she says slowly, breaking the silence since his previous comment. She has never thought of admitting this to him, not even moments ago, but it is the only thing she can think to say. 

He leans forward, then, resting his forehead against her shoulder, breathing toward her neck, and she wraps her arm more firmly around him when his arm snakes around her waist. Hermione can feel her heart beating, faster now than just minutes before, and it is in this moment alone when their bodies align that she realizes this is _nothing_ like how Viktor made her feel.

What a terrifying thought.

A few silent moments pass, then: “I don’t mean to. I don’t…you don’t understand, Granger. Not fully.”

“You’ve never let me try.” She has been angered since second-year, when the insults started, because she has never understood his motive, his reasons for not ever talking to her, and the anger multiplied the moment she realized that it could have been like _this_ between them. That, really, he has some sort of decency inside of him after all, and though she believes it might just be the power of their first encounter, he can still become this person.

“I thought _you_ would have been able to figure it out, at the very least.” She shivers from his breath, not used to the overwhelming feeling of a male wrapped around her, against her, and her arms pull him closer unconsciously. 

“I…tried, you know. I really did. I figured…I figured, after second-year, it was to torment me, to make me squirm and bring me down. To make you win, somehow, in a very strange way. But you kept…you kept _staring_ …and I didn’t have any other conclusion to come to because…because it’s _me_. I’m Hermione Granger, best friend of Harry Potter, and…” She trails off, suddenly understanding, and his hand flexes at her back when she lets out a heavy breath. If his closeness is anything to go by, he _wants_ to be her friend but… “You can’t. You can’t even talk to me. You can’t… Why now?” she whispers, shrugging her shoulder so she can better look at his face. It is still dark, but it is enough. “What is this?”

She can’t hear over the blood rushing in her ears, the adrenaline coursing throughout her body, or the hammering of her heart. Hermione is much too affected by this encounter, especially from the revelation she just discovered, and has to bring a hand up to her head in an attempt to steady her thoughts. She has persuaded herself, over and over again, that it is just a game or a way to take her down. An incredibly affecting way, at that, but she has never deluded herself into believing that it is because he wants to get to know her, but can’t—if only because of his house and her house, and the differences that exist between the two.

He shakes his head, and she can already see this as a bad sign, but she breathes in, out, in an attempt to calm her heartbeat and give her full attention to what he has to say. Three years have gone by without a problem, not even a snag, and she has a sinking feeling that something in his life, something that has happened, is causing this encounter. 

Because he probably never had the intention to do so before. Not unless he thought he’d never get another chance. 

Though this is new, completely unexpected, she understands wholly. 

“What happened?”

“Things are starting to go wrong,” he says, looking away. “With family. I just…it’s been three years, Granger. I just wanted to see…see what it was like. If I was right about you.”

“Right about me how?” 

“Like you said,” he whispers, “you’re Hermione Granger, best friend of Harry Potter. I’ve noticed your personality since the beginning, I guess, and… It’s all just curious to me, really.” He presses a hand to her hip, grabbing her, and brings her a little closer. “Damn it all to hell, Granger. I can’t… _explain_ , and you must know why I can’t, just like you don’t know why you don’t stop it. In the beginning, I thought you really would, but… I just can’t stop.”

Suddenly she wants to analyze his words, figure it all out and lay it on a table until she can make sense of it. But he doesn’t give her that opportunity. Instead, he pulls her closer into him, and she revels once again in his warmth. 

She will think of it all later, she decides, when her head isn’t clouded by the pleasant feel of him against her. 

They stand there for some time—Hermione tucked underneath his chin and his arms wrapped completely around her; as though he won’t ever let go. She is more comfortable and at ease than she ever would have thought, and is stunned into silence by the events taking place in this alcove. They are still teenagers, young in their own minds and bodies, but this feels right ( _unlike Viktor_ ) and she wants to stay here for more than just tonight, or come here with him more often. She thinks that this should have been happening all along, really.

Malfoy—the one she has seen all times before this—is not the Draco Malfoy that is in her arms, or the one that was curious enough about her tears to wait, wait, pull her aside, and bring up the awkwardness of the last three years with the best finesse he could have. 

They are on the precipice of _something_ , though she’s not sure just what, but the beginning of war stands up high between them.

Slowly, he untangles his hands from around her, pulling back just the slightest. Hermione lets him, feeling the loss of heat when he pulls away from her. She understands ( _it’s over_ ) and steps back, wrapping her cardigan tightly around her. Regretting the loss of him already. Her legs have felt the breeze this alcove creates, but she has not realized until now. 

She sighs heavily, and is regarded with silence as he steps as far as he can away. Hermione opens her mouth, intent on saying a parting word, but she can’t think of anything succinct to say, or to summarize what she feels inside. Her emotions are a mess, if only because an hour ago she had felt little more than contempt toward him, and in less than thirty minutes, her view has turned around entirely. 

Stepping toward the exit, she’s not at all surprised to feel his hand enclose her arm, easily turning her attention back to him. 

“I won’t be able to see you again after this.”

“I know,” she whispers. She isn’t sure what is going on, how this could have happened so quickly, but she already feels close to tears with the prospect of not being able to see him ever, like this. Not even if they snuck around, because that in itself is too dangerous already.

She gets that. She really does. 

“Until after.”

After leaving Hogwarts. After war. After death. She isn’t sure, but she turns around and runs as fast as she can back to the Gryffindor Tower, her thoughts flying and erratic.

She is supposed to just forget about everything, partially because he isn’t able to talk to her anymore, but she already finds that she can’t settle for his stares and his glances and that’s all. If anything, it only makes her more determined to get him to crack, to come to her again, because the minutes he’d spent with her had shown a maturity that contrasted with the stupidity and ridiculous antics he’d shown in the past. 

She is already drawn toward it, the enigma that had just begun being Draco Malfoy, and she already knows that she’d let herself become his confidante, a friend. Or something. _Anything_ to save him from what can very possibly be a painful future—if the fact he is considering not talking to her ever, even behind closed doors, is anything to go by.


	2. Two

**Word Count:** 4595  
**Beta:** Yet the same amazing people: Manda, Michelle, and Cklls. Lots of love!  
**Notes:** **_[Edit 2018]_** GOOD NEWS. This was originally published in 2011, and I re-edited in 2013, but apparently 2018 has bunnies flying around and I'm BACK. Which means, at the end of what was originally a three-parter, I'm adding MORE chapters to the end of this :). Will be updated _very shortly_.

**Their Secret: Two**

**Fourth Year**  
 _January_  
-  
Afterwards, she remembers his glances being more discreet, less frequent, and a lot more exhilarating than the ones previous. She’d attempted to catch his gaze more often, to catch it and hold it and tell him that she’d find him later, so they could talk, be friends, as was her plan.

But the months pass, and she gets no closer to him than in their first three years at Hogwarts.

Spring opens up, finally, and she watches as summer falls around them, until she is at home and with her parents. Draco plagues her mind throughout the summer months; she thinks of what he’s encountering now, if he has thought about her at all either, and whether he will finally have the gall to search her out again. 

Or, perhaps, war has already taken hold, and there is no hope for that anymore. 

Until after everything, like he said.

 

 **Fifth Year**  
_August_  
-  
Hermione goes back to Hogwarts with more uncertainties than when she left all those weeks ago.

Of course, he still watches her, occasionally passing her in a class and grazing her on the hip, hand, or fingers. She’d shiver, glance around, belatedly remember he is living on the fact he hasn’t been caught yet, and shifts away instead, scowling to hopefully carry on the illusion of hatred. She relies on these, to remind herself that _yes_ , the alcove really did happen, and _yes_ , he is still there for her. Or something like it. 

There is no doubt they have a connection now, larger than before, but how he wants to utilize it is beyond her. He’d held her, and touched her far more than any other boy had in the space of just under an hour, and yet it seemed he had no ulterior motives beyond friendship. She isn’t sure what she thinks of him—the embrace they’d shared had been rare, she thinks, because it had showed a part of what he’d ( _they’d_ ) wanted to do since the glances had become electric, meaningful. _Lustful_ , she is hesitant to add, because it isn’t so much lust as it is longing to know what it would be like to be closer, to be able to talk, etcetera.

Despite this having made a difference -- where she wants to find him too, talk to him—months go by instead, and she finds herself slowly getting more and more annoyed with him. Not only because he hasn’t spoken to her - not counting the times in the hallways with her friends when he spits her name as if he really, truly hates her - but because he is also actively part of Umbridge’s Squad. In the alcove, he’d basically shown enough of himself, of how he could be, to make up for the hurt he’d caused her in the years before, but now…

Now, he is bringing them down, discovering their cunning ways, and stopping them before they can get through any further DA meetings. She is having a hard enough time keeping Dumbledore’s Army a secret while dealing with the unfairness of Umbridge herself, her classes, and then the reality of everything else. Yet she has not seen him, like in The Alcove, since last year, and his absence only heightens the personality he has shown as of late.

It hurts her sometimes. She will think back to how long ago he’d started everything—to the days he’d warned her, back in second and fourth year. How subtle those warnings had been in front of Ron or Harry, how she hadn’t even known he meant good by it until the incident in The Alcove. She remembers all the insults, and the utter relief she’d felt once he’d shown, just a little bit, the details behind his behaviour. And how, really, he can be different.

Other times, Hermione wants to pull him out of the life he’s starting to lead, the life he _has_ to lead, because she can see how much he is changing day by day. She wants to be there for him, tell him he doesn’t have to listen to his family—for she can only assume that is where he’s getting his orders from—and that she is here for him. For the boy who has held some sort of fascination with her for years, manages to ignite her with just a simple glance, but plays the part of the perfect enemy; meanwhile, not acting on the very obvious inclination—on both their parts, she’s forced to realize over and over again—to seek the other out. 

However, she is more annoyed with his behaviour than her desire to do so. 

She watches fifth year pass by—not as slowly as she would have imagined, and busies herself in keeping the DA together, well-informed, and secretive, and focuses on taking down Umbridge. She also avoids Draco Malfoy at all costs, lest she get the overwhelming feeling to drag him into that alcove again, or worse, slap him for not doing so himself. 

When the Inquisitorial Squad catches them and brings them to Umbridge’s office, she feels the tension to the very bottom of her bones. She can detect his gaze, scattered for subtlety, but always there as Crabbe holds her hands behind her. Hermione can barely think past the fact that they are all in the same room together—Ron, Harry, _Draco_ —and the urge to turn around, to say, “ _Let us go, Malfoy. Please_!” is nearly as consuming as having his eyes on her in this particular situation. 

She wonders what he’d do, but realizes not a moment later that he’d, of course, act like the flawless enemy he has always been. Hermione isn’t sure how he pulls it off so well, so convincingly, when just standing here is reducing her usually logical thoughts to chaos in a matter of seconds. She knows, if the roles were reversed, that she’d crumble under his pleading; listen to it, reason with it, and then let him go if he’d asked. 

It is the difference between how she sees their relationship to how he does, and she’s uncertain if that makes all her previous revelations about his character, his reasons behind his actions, redundant.

Maybe he doesn’t want to get to know her as much as she thinks, or as much as she wants to get to know him in return.

Maybe he doesn’t want that at all. 

If anything, the end of the year creates even more indecision, confusion, and questions regarding his character, his thoughts, and the growing feelings within her. She can’t help but think it is the ultimate forbidden relationship, but it is so tangible that all he wants is to be in her company, or something close to it. 

His gazes can’t mean anything else.

It is the only thing connecting them now, but she still thinks it isn’t enough. 

Not after how he’d made her feel in The Alcove, the conflicting emotions fifth-year provided, and the emptiness she felt the moment she stepped onto the train in Hogsmeade, off at King’s Cross, and away from him for the remainder of the summer months.

Or the loneliness that followed.

 

 **Sixth Year**  
_July_  
-  
It is the third time Draco Malfoy’s presence makes her heart stutter, but it is more pronounced than before because, for once, she is the one watching him while his own eyes are trained elsewhere, oblivious. She, Harry, and Ron follow him throughout Knockturn Alley, and the sole thing that stays her mind is wondering how, precisely, he’d morphed into the man she sees in front of her. 

How in a little more than a year and a half, the edges in his features sharpened, the muscles in his back and arms grew, and the inches he’d gained in height had morphed that image of a boy into a young man. More importantly is from where the distinct aura of maturity, of sadness, of regret, and the startling expression on his face that only resembled determination came. 

He is on a mission, she thinks, already worried where he will lead them and what information she will find out from what ensues. 

She’s not sure she wants to find out, quite frankly, because of how linked they already are, and how many nights she knows she’ll stay up thinking about what he’ll get up to this year. Hermione is still sore from knowing how ridiculous he’d been the year previous, or that he didn’t even attempt to search her out, ensure she knew it was all for show, and didn’t even so much as hint at remorse besides the glances he sent her way whenever he could.

They aren’t expecting to find him with his mother, to see them making a deal _together_ , but it is what it is, and Hermione’s heart drops to the pit of her stomach at first glance -- _"Things are starting to go wrong. With family"_. Said years before, but still as fresh in her mind as ever. She recalls being confused by his proclamation, but it isn’t until now that she realizes it’s not only his family that is influencing him, but Voldemort that is starting it all. 

It would only make sense, given his lineage.

The urge to let out a cry is stifled by her hand, and if Harry and Ron notice at all, they don’t say a word. It is already dangerous enough since they are trying to listen through the cracks of the windows, but Hermione’s vision is too blurred by tears for her to concentrate on anything aside from wondering how he could have let this happen in the first place.

 

*

 

Relief floods her—literally washes in, surrounding her, and her shoulders sag in the aftermath—when Harry finally arrives in the Great Hall. But it is too soon replaced with anger, _sheer_ anger, when he explains who had injured him, and how Malfoy’s plan to send Harry back would have worked had Tonks not found him.

She searches for Malfoy in the expanse of his table, intent on catching him already looking at her, but is shocked to find that he is not in his usual seat or anywhere. Curiosity swims through her, briefly, but she is madder than she’s ever been at him, and, on second thought, is more relieved he isn’t there at all. She has a feeling that if he’d been boasting, or happily talking to the other Slytherins, she would have marched right over there to give him a piece of her mind.

And then some.

She lets out a breath, surprised to feel the overwhelming and almost painful urge to find him now, demand answers to her precious questions, and then figure out why the hell he thought it pertinent to send her best friend away from Hogwarts. But it is the Opening Feast, and no matter how many reliable excuses she could come up with at other times, there are none for tonight and she is forced to sit, slowly eat her food, and wait through the annual speech.

Hermione uses the mass of students heading to their dormitories as an escape route, jogging off before Harry and Ron notice she’d ever have the need to leave, and she sincerely hopes as she struggles her way through the crowd that they’d have the mind to wait for a couple hours before alerting McGonagall or Dumbledore to her disappearance.

Now, to where he could be.

The Alcove is her first stop on her trek, though she is very doubtful he is in there at all. When she is met with silence, darkness and emptiness, she chokes down the feeling of nostalgia, of choices they could have made differently, and of memories she’s been suppressing as much as she can since it happened. To forget, as easily as she can, the feel of him in her arms, the sound of his voice when he isn’t sneering, scowling, or spitting in her face. 

The friendship she could have had with him. 

She doesn’t know where this yearning was born from; if it had all started the moment he pulled her aside, or back in second year when he’d set the precedent of their relationship. She just knows it escalated, grew enormously, once she’d seen a part of him she’d never seen before, and the unavoidable difference in how he could be with her compared to how he acts in public. 

Hermione feels unlucky because of this. He has kept this going, never stopped after their encounter, and she is reminded every day of the fact that he is holding onto something that he apparently can never have, not with his family dictating his choices. Not with the supposed beliefs he must have, utilize, and always represent.

She is left to realize that she can never be friends with him, either. 

But his actions against her best friend require a confrontation, friendship or not, past or not, enemies or not.

She rushes out of the space before she can think more on the subject, finds the anger deep within her once again, and makes her way up to the Astronomy Tower. It has been rumoured for years that Malfoy frequents this specific spot, sometimes with girls, but he’d scowl and insult any visitor who tried to go in at the same time as him. 

And he doesn’t let her down. 

“Get out.”

He isn’t even looking her way from where he’s propped up, and she realizes that he probably has no idea who’s just walked through the door. Hermione steps forward, unafraid, because yes, even though there have been several signs that he is different, altered from the boy that pulled her aside years ago, she knows that he has still been watching her—or at the very least, during last year, which isn’t that long ago at all.

“I’m not leaving,” she says, loud enough for him to hear. 

He turns toward her, slowly, and she sees his eyes flicker a few times, slicing through emotions, but she can barely tell the difference when, moments later, he is back to the Draco Malfoy she sees in the hallways, in classes, and not the one who glances her way almost out of habit now.

Her stomach drops.

“I won’t. Not until I get answers.” Because it is important he know why she’s here.

He returns his gaze to the night sky, and she steps closer when she doesn’t feel the weight of his concentration anymore. She can see the tightening of his jaw, one of his fists clenching, but she isn’t ready for the raw emotion he speaks with next. “Why are you here, Granger? You know…I can’t… _Jesus_ ,”—he runs a hand through his hair, pulling at the roots in agitation— “You need to leave.” He rises, muscles rippling behind the white button-down of his school uniform. His cloak, she sees, is underneath him, but her focus is stolen when he starts toward her. “I can’t have you here. This isn’t… _Go!_ ”

“What is...” she trails off, shaking her head. She suddenly feels the anger he’s encompassing, combined with her own, and grasps onto it the more she sees it affecting him as well. “Why are you doing all this, Draco? Why are you,” —roughly, she swipes at her forehead, dazed at the pure emotion she feels— “You don’t have to do this! You aren’t…this… _this_ boy who hurts other people, who breaks their noses, and leaves them on a train to bleed to death. You aren’t…I didn’t think that— After all this, after what you said years ago, I had thought you would deal with this better. That you wouldn’t let it affect you as much, that you’d at least try to fight it, that you didn’t _want_ it. Or that you wouldn’t be as cruel, to me, to Harry, to everyone. And now you’re…tainted. Corrupted. I can already tell, and—”

“You don’t _understand_ , Granger! And you’ll never get it. I can’t…I can’t discuss this with you. You need to go. I can’t.” He turns his head away, and she watches him swallow, like it hurts, and she feels her heartstrings being tugged horribly closer to him. 

“You’re not letting me understand!” She stamps her foot on the stone, and she feels a little childish after, but it is not often that she suffers from how angry she is at him. 

One full day hasn’t even passed yet, and she has already noticed the large difference in him—a dangerous one, she’s afraid to admit. He is pulling his weight by himself, and she can see the effect it’s having on him: the lack of life in his eyes, the worry permanently etched in his face, and the determination set further back than all of that, showing through.

He is hurting horribly. She can tell just by his silence.

Hermione has always set her goals aside to help another in need, but she feels propelled even further by him because of their past, and the likelihood that besides herself, and possibly Pansy Parkinson and a few others, he won’t let anyone else help. She hopes, at least, that he will let her in and can only assume that is the case, with the complications of his family and her heritage getting in the way.

She raises a hand to his arm, but before she can make contact, his eyes dart toward her, glaring, and she halts in her tracks. There is a moment, paused between them, that she thinks to bring him close anyway, touch him and see his reaction, but she feels too awkward, inexperienced with him, and she pulls away at the last second. She breathes in, nervous, and thinks to leave, but she has come here for a reason and if he can stop that with a simple rejection, then she really does have a problem with how he makes her feel.

“I had thought…that you would at least keep in touch, Malfoy. That after fourth-year, you’d…be different. But you’ve only gotten worse, much worse if this first night is any indication, and I can’t just… _stand_ by, being me, and with the past we have. And you’re troubled. With— _Merlin_. With Voldemort--”

His scoff cuts her off. “You know, Granger, I think that’s why I started it in the first place. Because you were hard-headed, not afraid to match people’s arguments with your own, and the fact you don’t give up. But I must admit that it’s more of a nuisance now.”

She crinkles her brow, astounded. Of course, she knew that he must have changed in the year and a half she hasn’t talked to him, but he is much more sinister and unfeeling than she would have thought possible. 

“You don’t mean that.”

Because maybe he is just saying these things, and she doesn’t have to lie in bed, awake, blaming herself for not doing what she could a year ago, for not making him see reason then, for not doing anything at all.

“Don’t I?” He shakes his head, almost as an afterthought, and narrows his eyes at her. “What did you expect to find? That I’m hurting inside? That you can help me, and I’ll come to your side? You _knew_ this from the very beginning, and I tried to keep my distance the moment I realized you were undoubtedly going to be Harry Potter’s best friend forever. Fourth-year was a mistake, and if you think it changed anything, it didn’t. I just…couldn’t _not_ , okay?” His jaw clenches, and she can see the conflicting emotions in his eyes, so unlike the front he’d put on just minutes before. “I was dealt with this life when I was born, and I’ve been coping just fine so far. The longer you’re in here, Granger… I can’t. You have to leave.”

“I _won’t_. Don’t you get that? You’ve injured my best friend, all for some silly Dark Lord, and I’ve come here to find out just why you seem to be taking his orders, or your family’s order from him! You’re losing yourself, Malfoy. You’ve just…lost it. That’s why you’re not talking to me right now, or pulling me into alcoves again…” 

She almost wants to slap herself for her hesitation, the awkwardness that follows, and the blush that takes over her features. They have never talked about their relationship, let alone talked at all, and her assumptions of being closer than a foot apart ( _touching, hugging_ ) take over the silence between them. It brings them out of the seriousness of war, of choices, and into the discomfort of girl and boy interactions.

Hermione turns away, embarrassed, but fills the silence before it eats both of them alive. “I don’t _expect_ anything, but it’s a little ridiculous to continue this thing if you’ve already made your mind up, or chosen to follow Voldemort. I’d…help you, if you wanted, in whatever way I can. But if you’re going to be like this, then–”

“We _can’t_. _I_ can’t. Ever. Whether I chose this future, or had it forced upon me, I can never converse with you! Or come to you if I ever needed, and Merlin, ask your advice! I shouldn’t be associating with you at all, but… I _can’t_ stop.”

“ _Why_?” she exclaims, exasperated, rounding on her heel to look at him. “Do you know what it does to me? Do you even understand how it makes me feel, Malfoy? All those nights in the beginning, I had to sit there and believe that you wouldn’t cause me harm, that I wouldn’t turn a corner one day, find you with your wand aimed at me, and have to hope I was going to live past the age of twelve. I wasn’t ever sure! And then…then fourth-year…” She feels her eyes tear up, and she sucks a hurried breath in, frustrated with herself for being so honest with him. For finally letting him know _exactly_ how broken down she is by his actions. “What I thought of you after… You were better than I imagined, and I couldn’t… I couldn’t just forget that. I was never able to forget that, not with you reminding me every day! I _hated_ you last year for once again being the enemy, and this year— I knew something was different the moment I got on the train. And _already_ , you’re causing me havoc. If you’re going to continue whatever this is, you can’t be plotting to kill my best friend, or even anyone! I just— I couldn’t handle that if you did.”

She watches him shake his head, once, twice, before he steps past her and toward the exit. “That’s exactly why you need to leave. I’m not a good person, Granger. I won’t ever be. Not for you, not for anyone. I can’t. I have family to be loyal to, instead of trusting a frizzy-haired girl who thinks she can help even the most pitiful of people. Nothing will change me, and I’m not going to let another person down by letting them believe I’ll change for them, because I can’t. I can’t for you either.”

Hermione nearly chokes on his words, but she sees the reasoning behind it, and that is what pushes her forward. She can barely think of everything all in one piece in that moment, and she imagines that if she did, her only reaction would be to cry for the lost confidant, for all the memories they could have made, or the friendship she’d felt growing between them after The Alcove. For maybe the first time in her life, she forces the thoughts down, away, to be reopened again when she isn’t in the presence of someone who’d turn her away rather than hold her, if only because his family forbade it. 

Draco is the enemy—always would be—and it’d be bad to forget that amidst the impulse to cry.

Just before she’s out the door, she feels his hand again, and his eyes instantly pull her own in. The pure emotion in them causes her breath to hitch; they contradict the words, the impression he creates with everything he’s said to her in the last ten minutes. It keeps her from rushing past him in anger at the turn of events, to listen to his last words.

“You need to stay away from me. You can’t search me out again. I can’t… I can’t be near you, and I can’t touch you because I’d never let you leave. It’s why I can’t stop looking at you, making sure you’re there, or…any of it. Go… and never come back.” 

 

*

Hermione gets word of Ron’s poisoning from Harry, and that he is also in the Hospital Wing, recovering. 

She feels numb, because she has been refraining from believing the truth from the beginning, but this is more than glaring her in the face—it is destroying her life, her friends, and her opinion of him. She could have convinced herself before that he couldn’t have possibly done such horrible things to a student, to Madame Rosmerta, to anyone, but she is forced back to reality once his actions affect Ron, _hurt_ Ron, and nearly kill him. 

She does not take that lightly. 

For weeks afterward, she glares, shoves his shoulder when she has the opportunities, and refuses to look him in the eye when it is obvious he’s trying to get her attention. She has watched the deterioration of his health, his livelihood, and his persona, but he has gone too far, and like she said months before, she couldn’t handle that. Hermione felt obligated in the beginning to search him out, her anger surpassing what she’d felt when he’d injured Harry, but had stuck her feet in the ground and stayed further away from him than before.

She’d only end up killing the idiot. 

Though she doesn’t condone what Malfoy did to Ron, she doesn’t condone killing anyone either. 

Hermione still feels his glances, and though he is much less passionate about them now, they still ignite her system into awareness. She hurts for him, more than she ever thought she could for someone doing so many bad things, and she wishes she could take the pain away. Wants to persuade him to change sides, fight for what is right, instead of what his family believes in. She wants to tell him she’d be there for him, always.

But he has made it clear they cannot do that. That _he_ can’t, and she doesn’t want to be the downfall of his life—the one he is fighting so hard to have. It is why she doesn’t search him out when she hears of Ron’s near-death experience, or why she doesn’t hex him forever, either.

It is later, however, that she realizes just how much she is silently yearning for Draco, having placed him in a part of her heart that she does not acknowledge for a year. She isn’t sure how this happened at all, and it changes everything when Harry almost kills Draco just months later.


End file.
